“Richard, how goes it?”

“It’s another day in paradise.”

That was a repetition of Richard’s throughout my time at Beal. Intended to be ironic, he and I both knew Beal wasn’t paradise. He and I both knew it wasn’t hell either. Like a lot of life, if you were lucky, it was somewhere between both of those worlds, a long way from ideal, but, as the saying went about death, a lot better than the alternative. At least for the people who were still there, even consultants like me, who went about their business at Beal and everywhere else expecting the faceless, hooded executioner to drop the blade any time to sever the relationship. And if, like me, you worked that way, then when it happened, you said thank you and you said keep me in mind for future projects, and before you left you went around the cubes and offices to shake hands and say thanks again. Then you went home to make some phone calls, and in normal economies it wouldn’t take many to dig up some new business. In most cases I dug up more than I wanted or could handle and ended up passing the extra off to friends and associates expecting they would do the same for me.

In the spring of 2008, the severing at Beal started before I knew anything about it. That was typical. I was the last to hear about things that had nothing to do with me. By then I’d been working on projects at Beal for five years, but I was still an outsider as far as the news went. I could be axed any moment, so why develop a relationship that was anything but about business. Why include me in the general email announcements that were sent out by the Departments or that came from Administration, HR, or Compliance. I was a mercenary. There was no reason for me to get them. No reason for people to tell me without my asking, and so I was last to hear good news and bad. The last one to hear about promotions, acquisitions, new federal regulations, or an after-work get-together at Ulysses or Fraunces Tavern for a retiring Senior Executive or a guy from the mail room who had been pushing a cart around the hallways for thirty years distributing incoming letters, magazines, and solicitations.

Each day, I assumed half a dozen notices of that kind were sent out to the full-timers who, for better or worse, carried that information around in their heads and gossiped about. Each day, I knew I was in the dark on those and many other company matters, some important, though most of the time they weren’t, so I was never bothered by it. I didn’t want or need that stuff expanding in my brain. And in that way, I didn’t find out until two weeks after it happened that a few people I dealt with had been canned.

I found it out from Larry, my go-to guy. I was chatting with him by the 12^th floor elevators when I lowered my voice and inquired if the lady named Claudia, who worked in Internal Audit and hadn’t returned the answer to an email nor to the follow-up I’d sent her, was sick or had left the company? Larry shook his head to tell me no on both conjectures.

After he did, I wondered, “So where did she move on to?”

“You didn’t hear what happened?” he said. “She was one of them.”

“One of them what?” I asked the question even if I was sure what was coming next.

“Fired,” Larry said. “Two weeks ago, Friday. They got a visit from HR and security in the morning. Two minutes to clear personal items out of their desks.” Larry flashed two fingers between us and looked at me with his big serious eyes. It was cruel but true. “That’s what they got. Two minutes. Treated like they just got here last week, and no one knew them.”

“How many? Who else?” I asked.

He named them all. Some, like Claudia, I knew and a few I didn’t. A range of people and positions. A trader over in Equities. A researcher in Fixed Income. Someone who worked for Mitch. Even the Staff Assistant up in Accounting I’d spoken with about my invoices had been cut loose.

“No more twelve-dollar cocktails for them,” I said.

“I’ve been cutting back on those myself,” Larry said.

Our attempt to lighten the mood fizzled as fast as it rose. With a few more words Larry turned away and headed off. I went back to my cubicle and thought about my future at Beal.

By then, I and everyone else was preparing for a downturn. The economy was weakening. Growth was slowing and unemployment rising. From a chat with the Junior Economist, I knew the number of unemployed had jumped to 8.5 million, a 25% increase since 2007. June’s numbers were expected to grow that downbeat figure. Yet, I justified it believing companies used these times as a way to get rid of people that were unnecessary or redundant, or who they didn’t like or weren’t doing as good a job as they were expected to do or were thought to be overpaid. Was this some spring cleaning at Beal or the start of a major reduction that would prepare the company for a recession that, if the economic indicators coming out of Washington were accurate, had started six months earlier?

After news of the sackings, it didn’t take much to see everyone at Beal was a little worried. I saw it in their eyes and body language. The general tone of the place had tamped down. People’s voices turned softer and less conspicuous, as if not wanting to draw attention to themselves.

The news on CNBC and Bloomberg was a barrage of worrisome indicators. The deficit was growing. The two wars were draining resources needed elsewhere. Jobs were being sent overseas at a disturbing rate you took notice of if you happened to be looking for one. Over the intercom, Beal’s Chief Economist repeated and interpreted the new data and most of his opinions were down. In an online article on The Times’ website, I read about the growing risk of a housing and subprime crisis, and how the slightest shock, a rise in the price of a barrel of oil was one of them, could push future growth into negative territory. At the end of the article the writer quoted a Nobel Prize winning economist as having raised the chance of a deep recession from forty percent to fifty.

So, what lay ahead? No one seemed to know. It was guesswork. Words and numbers concatenating and filtering into this and that, even if no one could be certain what the shape of this or that would be. That was how I explained it to myself. The scenario had yet to take explicit form. A huge thing such as the economic interaction of a country had to be difficult to pin down. No one would know where it was leading until the recession kicked in or it didn’t kick in at all. Though it might just be if enough people believed the economy was going to take a big hit, then it would. Contrary to that, I supposed if everyone stopped believing what they read and heard and went about their business as usual, then it might not. Or it might delay it. Or lessen its impact.

What I came to that day in my cubicle after talking with Larry by the elevators was this: it was best to go outside, breathe the air, and maybe buy something good to eat and drink or that I needed, and in that way convince myself life goes on, and I couldn’t avoid it while I was in it. There wasn’t any reason or need to worry about the putt until I was on the green. Then once I was and pulled the putter out of my bag, I had to have the courage to strike the little white ball hard enough it would have a chance to go in the hole. Never up, never in, and I was still in it. And yet, I was sure I could feel what was inevitable.

One of those inevitable things came the next day when the Dow Jones Industrial average dropped 434 points, a descent that was stopped only by the 4:00 o’clock closing bell. But that was just a big hit in the continuation of what began to look like a precipitous fall. More and more bad things were happening. There were more home foreclosures. More job losses. More giant bites into retirement accounts people assumed would be there when that time came. More companies were in serious trouble and many of those were financial institutions. A game of economic dominos was playing out. The world seemed to be falling in on itself and, small as my role was in it, I couldn’t help but accept a little of that responsibility. One thing was certain, it wasn’t something I felt proud of.

Late the next morning the market was dropping some more, and the Chief Economist came over the speakers to say in a voice I couldn’t help thinking was unaffected by what he was about to tell us: “There’s just no good news out there right now. I don’t see any room to hope that will change, at least not in the short-term.”

And we, the traders, researchers, consultants, and everyone else working on and around the Trader Farm, sat captivated in our Aeron chairs for the few moments he spoke. When he was done, we went back to our flat screens and tasks as if he’d told us there were donuts in the kitchen if any of us was interested.

But the Chief Economist’s words sobered the mood around there. It was immediate and I could sense it. The usual blunt chatter and cruel joking that went on morning to evening had died down from the proverbial roar to a whisper. Everyone seemed to turn in on themselves, at least for the moment, as if they were sorting through the ramifications of the Chief Economist’s message. Or remembering how different life was a few months earlier.

Doing some of that myself, I had the sudden desire to hit the streets and take a walk even though it was two hours before lunch. And it was while I was sitting there with that thought that all the way on the other side of the trading floor, I caught Larry heading for the hallway. He was carrying something silver, some flat piece of equipment he cuffed in his right hand. I shot out of my seat and went off that way with the intention of interrupting him. I hadn’t talked to him in days, maybe three or four, and I wanted to share some thoughts with him about a situation that was heading downhill without any brakes to apply to stop it. Or that might at least slow it down.

We greeted each other with knowing looks, though they were far from demonstrating any discreet satisfaction in us having anticipated the difficulties that were about to have a profound effect on the country and world. Even if we didn’t have any idea just how profound an effect that would be.

Larry shot back a quick yes to a walk. He wanted to commiserate with me about our plight. With a tip of his head, he drew attention to the object in his hand. “Let me get this out of the way and I should be clear in fifteen.”

“How about we have an early juice?” I threw my hand out as I might to tell a waiter I was in need of a refill.

“Is it too early for something stronger than that?” Larry wondered without irony.

A little while later he met me in the lobby. We spun out the revolving doors and crossed through the shadows on Old Slip. It wasn’t until we were on the other side of Water, past Hanover Square and far enough away from Beal that we opened up, the both of us abuzz with the economist’s depressing review and wondering if we’d have jobs the next fiscal year?

“At least they can’t live without you,” I said. “Someone has to manage the people keeping the machines generating income. Me, I don’t generate much of anything. I wouldn’t be missed.”

“I tell you, I think it’s even worse than he’s letting on,” Larry said. “I’m thinking this isn’t going to be our daddy’s recession. And those were pretty bad. I’m thinking we’re going to get our asses handed to us and we deserve to too. We being you, me, and everyone else who came to the party and stayed late. And the later you stay at something like that the harder it is to go home.”

“What do you mean? It was a negative report, he didn’t have one good thing to say, not a single damn thing.” I spoke those last few words with heavy emphasis. “What could be worse than what you’re thinking of?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I know one thing, I’m getting scared. How do I replace all this?”

“Now, you have me as worried as you are. Let’s get that juice. I need to put something healthy in my body. Or at least I need the illusion of health.”

“This might be the last time for me. From this point on, five-buck juices are unaffordable no matter how good they are for me.”

“I’m not ready to say that,” I said. “But I might change my mind after tomorrow’s economic report.”

We made a left toward the cart, got our juices, and as we turned back toward Old Slip, I told Larry a story about the time I’d saved a few thousand dollars, maybe four or five, and I’d used them to open my first mutual fund in a big Boston bank. It felt good to do. I was twenty-seven and starting to prepare for my future, socking away a little money in a way my parents weren’t able to do but would have if they had any leftover.

Sometime after that, a few months I guessed, I was out getting lunch with one of the guys I worked with. He was older. He knew a lot more than I did about investments. Let’s say if he knew anything, he knew more than I did. We were passing by one of the branches, and I told him about the fund I had in it, and then in my usual paranoid way, I asked him what would happen if the bank ever went bust and didn’t have the resources to give me my money back? He pointed at it and told me if that bank ever went bust it would mean we were all in trouble, not just me, but every single person in the country.

“I never forgot that,” I said. “Thing is, now all my money’s invested in something somewhere. A lifetime of work. What’s going to happen to it all? Right now, I’m down eleven percent. Eleven percent. It’s not giving me the secure feeling it used to. I should cash out and let it rest in its natural state for a while.”

“That’s what I mean.” Larry put his lips to the straw and drew in some orange liquid. I sucked up some of my own, though it was closer to the color of blood. “This time it feels different,” he said. “Poor I came out of my mother's womb, and poor I shall return to the time before that. But I was hoping it wouldn’t be until then. That is all I am saying.”

“One of these companies should be left to stand or fall on its own.” The Junior Economist told that to the Head of Equities. They were having a chat a few feet from my desk on consultant’s row.

I was back sitting there after my walk with Larry. It was an hour before it was time to go out and get a sandwich or salad. Not that I was feeling hungry after the large carrot, beet, and apple juice that wasn’t mixing so well in my stomach with Larry’s and my back and forth about a situation that was dominating world news. I couldn’t help hearing the Junior Economist go on some more about cutting off any more rescue efforts by the Administration and Fed. Twenty-five years old, he was a few years out of Columbia and quite unsentimental about the plight of those billions around the globe that capitalism used up and threw out like lunch napkins when it didn’t ignore them completely. And in that way, the thought intruded on me, economists were a lot like surgeons applying the sharpest scalpels to sick patients. They might save them, they might kill them, but I never felt they cared so much about the outcome. It was about the process, interesting and unsure as it might be. And in economics that process would, over time, turn around as it always had.

“They created their own problems and should stand on their own two feet or go down,” the Junior Economist continued as the Head of Equities gave him his full attention. “No way taxpayers should have to pay for that. You get yourself into something, you get yourself out of it. That’s what we all have to do, so why not them?”

One month later Lehman Brothers Investments got themselves into it, and the help they needed to stay in business wasn’t forthcoming. It was as if the federal agencies and big banks able to rescue them had been with me on consultant’s row and overheard the Junior Economist and took his advice. There was even a term going around being used to justify it: “moral hazard.” One of those places had to fail to send all the others a message. The finger in the dike holding the water back that would drown Lehman would be pulled and just like that the company would be no more.

That night on television, it was a Monday night I believe, I sat in front of the TV, drank a beer, and watched Lehman’s employees carry boxes of their belongings out of the building on Seventh Ave. It had been going on all day, that displacement of employees from one of the world’s biggest investment houses, a collapse no one was going to agree to keep afloat another day longer.

That reportage was all over Beal’s flat screens. I caught a lot of the nervous laughter and the tinge of fear in the voices on the trading floor, even if, in the days before that, as the Junior Economist was so emphatic about, letting one of those places go down had been talked about, even suggested in a boastful way, as a way to get the message going around that everyone was responsible for their decisions. Only the smartest and fittest should be allowed to survive.

Whatever message was being sent, a confusing time had started, a dreadful time that would change everything. Some kind of universal justice seemed to be descending on a system that was out of control and no one was accountable for. Things were unraveling and sorting out. The day had come. The programs I had played a part in developing and all the programs like them had compounded the problem. Or caused it. Who knew? I sure didn’t. I did know they passed along assets with nothing backing them up. Nothing. The Hot Potato Theory was being played out, and as usual only the suckers ended up holding them.

The unraveling got momentum one day late in 2007 when the nation’s biggest subprime lender sought bankruptcy protection. Then mortgage defaults increased as people couldn’t refinance or sell their depreciating homes. Then Bear Stearns had to bail out one of its hedge funds by loaning it $3.2 billion. Then the credit crisis began. The credit markets froze up and the companies with money to lend no longer wanted to do that. Then the Fed cut interest rates to try to get credit moving. Then Bear Stearns was sold to Citicorp, a company, it would be learned later on, that itself wasn’t in the greatest financial shape. Then the shares of Fannie and Freddie fell. Then the stock market dropped a few thousand points. Then no one wanted to spend money. No one had any to spend. It had been there, on their bank statements and in their houses and retirement plans, then it wasn’t.

Where did it go? People wondered? I did. I wondered how it happened even as it was happening. I didn’t believe. I didn’t want to believe. How does something that was there dissolve into the air? If the banks were getting short of money, then who had it? Where would a habitual bank robber like Willie Sutton go to get a few bags of cash when he needed them? We, the people united, were puzzled, all of us. That was for sure. Even if it was obvious what was happening. Even if the world was no longer the same and, it was being said, it just might never be the same again.

Maybe you were also worried those days during the middle of the crash. Maybe you were aware more bad news was coming. Maybe not. I don’t see any reason to go into those details. I’m pretty sure I mentioned this wasn’t a rehashing of those events. I will note in September that year Lehman was caught short with sixty billion in sour real estate holdings and had little to back them up. No company could be found to take them off their hands and take on that debt without guarantees. Government regulators refused to get involved and, after all other routes were closed, Lehman had to file for bankruptcy protection. Then on that Monday of mostly blue skies in New York, the people who worked there went into the midtown building to pack up and carry their personal items down to the street and into the lights of the television cameras where they expressed disbelief. The next day, as I said, stock markets around the world did the same, expressed their disbelief one of their own had been left to fail.